What if I carried them all,

carried the immensity of your poisoned dreams,

your ideas of what I should be?

What if my shoulders tried to hold it all,

bending under the load as I stride alone

beneath the slender moon that trembles

when she sees the burden I carry?

Do I frighten you,

with the anger and passion and lust in my eyes,

with the words I use to defend my loneliness?

Does it anger you when I ignore your advice?

when I drive too fast,

when unholy words spill over my ragged lips,

when I forget to hide my arms under long sleeves?

And after all this time,

do you think I still care what you have to say?

Do you think you have the right to tell me

who I am and who I am not?

This is all I will give you:

words and fists, or perhaps words like fists,

all the pent-up anger of the good girl

and perhaps someone should tell you:

you cannot hold me, not anymore, not ever again.

I know where the light comes from.

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